


Notes from the Atelier

by Sath



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Flash Fic, Gen, Ghosts, Illustrated, M/M, Macarons, Sad Blowjobs, art so hot you can't handle it, french painter slash, gratuitous scowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/pseuds/Sath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fiction featuring unusual pairings, illustrations by <a href="http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com">Nisie</a>, rampant medievalism, sometimes dogs, and the results of many a dare. All chapters are labeled with pairings and characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. jehan's ragged pause. grantaire/prouvaire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nisiedraws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nisiedraws/gifts).



> Written for a [charcoal drawing](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/post/54386472154/dont-mind-me-im-still-pretending-to-be-a) of Jehan.

Jehan rarely stayed in bed with Grantaire afterwards, though he didn’t mind how Grantaire would linger on. Grantaire watched as Jehan frenetically picked through his library in nothing but his shirtsleeves, before he settled on a particularly battered volume and heaved himself into his favourite armchair.

“People don’t know how to read anymore,” Jehan said, resting his chin on his hand. “Words are read once, then forgotten. Save for the antique Enjolras, we have lost the art of oration. We’re left with puns – a linguistic squib.”

“What a foul thing the printing press was. One would almost think you were against universal education,” Grantaire replied.

Jehan scowled out the window. “Progress scuttles sideways. There is no gain without a loss, and our language flees from our mouths to gather on the page, where no one will remember it.”

"Tell me more as you hold your pose. Art has a longer memory.”


	2. the apprentice. grantaire/gros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for this [illustration](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/post/54626248703/a-young-grantaire-during-his-days-as-a-student-of) of Grantaire and Gros in the studio.

There was something in his student’s expression that Gros wanted to paint, though Grantaire’s sweetness galled him. He was more of a Salai than a Minniti; he stole constantly, was irritable with the other students, and had Gros wrapped up precariously with his easy affection.

“You should spend your time on pretty girls,” Gros said, watching as Grantaire leaned against the slightest press of Gros’s hand in his hair, “not old men.”

“What makes you think I don’t, with this face? But they are fonder of my tongue, and I’m still fonder of your art supplies, and I trust my mouth to express my admiration best.”

“Keep running it as you do, and you will never hang in the Salon.”

“I will genuflect before my critics, and they will forgive me as you do,” Grantaire said. 

“They do not forgive anything,” Gros replied.

Grantaire’s gaze softened further, his mouth crooked into a smile Gros knew could swiftly turn sad.

Perhaps it already was. Grantaire said nothing more before moving Gros’s shirtfront aside and wrapping his hand around Gros’s hardening prick. Gros closed his eyes as he felt the boy’s mouth close around him, preferring not to see when he was able to feel only heat and the playful flick of Grantaire’s tongue.

“You are too good to me,” Gros said, sensing the gentle press of Grantaire’s teeth and his lips shifting into a grin.

If Grantaire would only try – it would not matter, because Gros’s own moribund style clung to him. Gros had taught him as well as he could, which was badly. 

"God," Gros murmured. 

Such waste.


	3. shades. grantaire/prouvaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got this message as an anonymous ask: _man, the sad blowjobs got so sad i think i want enjolras to stop getting them. at least r and jehan have loveless happy blowjobs._
> 
> So I set myself out to prove otherwise.

Paris was deafening. Jehan could feel it pounding in his ears and loping through his blood like a hunting hound. The brick against his back was old but not old enough; the rough blocks tugged at his hair, prickling against his spine. They were in an alley, him and Grantaire, and something smelled rotten. 

One of Grantaire’s knees was in a puddle of stagnant water. He hadn’t noticed yet, palming himself through his trousers as Jehan fucked his throat. Grantaire’s eyes were shut tight, his breath strained and shallow. Jehan could only do this with Grantaire, who yielded and yielded.

It drained him, though Grantaire asked for nothing. Perhaps if Grantaire ever asked, Jehan could find something to give.

Jehan feared having nothing for him. The centuries pressed too heavily on Paris, her suffering longer than any passing shade of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the most unbearably pretentious thing I will ever say, but the first paragraph contains nothing but words of Anglo-Saxon/Germanic origin, except for 'brick,' 'spine,' and 'alley.'


	4. a post-seine AU. grantaire/javert/valjean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift for [voksen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen), who wanted 'beefbus sandwiches.'

Javert knew that the boy who’d dragged him from the Pont au Change had had something more than kindness driving him; it was not charity that made Grantaire begin talking to Javert. Grantaire’s bouts with concern were tolerable because they were short, whereas Valjean’s never seemed to end. Valjean would love them both; a thankless task, save for when the three of them would tumble into bed together. Grantaire was their unlikely center, because he was eager and seemed to want to learn Javert’s body as much as he did Valjean’s. Javert’s chief pleasure, though he’d never admit it to either of them, was watching the two of them together. Grantaire would allow Valjean to take him, would guide Valjean’s hands to stroke his thighs, and yet Grantaire would keep his gaze on Javert, would plead for Javert’s hands and mouth until Javert relented and gave Grantaire all he asked for.


	5. open air in the desert. grantaire/joly/prouvaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all began with an earnest discussion over the relative merits of Prouvaire's butt vs. Joly's, which was then illustrated with all scientific accuracy and artistic integrity [here](http://shadowofthesathpire.tumblr.com/post/63645415319/butt-parison).

Joly had surely hired the bumpiest cab in all of Paris, because Grantaire was able to feel every part of the road through Joly’s perky backside. 

"My friend, usually carriages are sat in, not passengers sat upon,” Grantaire said. 

"This is a carriage designed for two; our number is five," Joly replied, looking sidelong at Lesgles and Bahorel. "I have picked you for my seat. It is a self-sacrificing gesture, since either of the two gentlemen to the right of me would surely crush you, whereas I am but a light caress over your inguinal regions." 

"Jehan, are you being martyred similarly?" Grantaire asked. 

Prouvaire slid further into Grantaire’s lap at the same time he moved flush against Joly. The pair of them were posed like charming caryatids, and Prouvaire’s wry little smile was as impish as Joly’s grin. 

"St. Catherine was broken upon the wheel, was she not? Four wheels is surely four times the martyrment," Prouvaire said.

"I’m more deviled than St. Anthony," Grantaire muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If only we all had such problems, Grantaire.


	6. a bunch of macaron-i. courfeyrac/marius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for feuillyova, but I want to give this little fic a home for all aficionados of Carl.

There was a conspiracy on the Rue de la Verrerie. Every morning, from seven to nine, Carl left Courfeyrac’s bed and absconded from the household. Marius was determined to get to the bottom of the mystery while Courfeyrac was still sleeping off his evening brandy.

Tracking a dog unnoticed ought to have been difficult, but God had spared the Pug most of the animal senses. Carl left the house by pawing at the door until their landlady grew tired of the scratching and let him out with a grumbled “fais pipi.” He barely moved his watery eyes from side to side to check for a tail before pawing off his collar and leaving it with a beggar. Carl began to walk with a noticeable scamper as he turned down a street well-known to Marius.

The smell of freshly made dessert wafted out from one of the finest pâtisseries in Paris (and all the pâtisseries in Paris were already quite fine). Carl let himself in. Marius waited for the baker to throw Carl out, but no such thing happened. Instead, Marius pressed his nose to the glass as his indignant breath almost fogged up his view of Carl’s morning scam.

“Oh, my poor little homeless thing! You have returned to me with nothing but skin on your bones!” the baker cooed, rubbing the rolls of fat around Carl’s neck. “Here, I have more macarons for you. Perhaps the little monsieur will snaffle another?”

Little monsieur did. It was too much for Marius. He slammed the door open, pointing his finger at Carl’s pastry-besmirched jowls.

“J’accuse! This dog is a liar! He is no indigent pup - he doesn’t deserve that pastry. He hid his collar and came here under false pretenses.”

Carl swallowed his last bite of macaron decisively before turning his head. The baker was holding a petits-four.

“Are you feeling unwell, boy?” the baker asked.

“No, I am feeling betrayed.”

The baker seemed confused, though Marius had no idea how he could have been more clear that Carl was behaving dishonestly. The baker put one hand on Marius’s shoulder and gave him the petits-four with the other.

“You look a bit skinny yourself. Why don’t you eat some pastries and then you and the dog can go back to whoever’s keeping you?”

Tears filled Marius’s eyes. Carl was, with one exception (Marius), an excellent judge of character.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carl, as always, belongs to acaramelmacchiato.


	7. sing, muse. enjolras/grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the amazing goshemily!

In some versions of this story, the silence of a quiet night is enough to rouse a dead drunk from slumber.

Enjolras paced the back room of the Corinth. He had shot the artillery-man; his cheek still felt wet from crying, though he’d wiped his face again and again. What a strange night of tears and kisses, before he died.

For he knew that he would die soon after the rosy fingers of dawn crept over Paris. Perhaps Enjolras would be a better leader if he could pretend otherwise.

Grantaire was still face-down on the table, his poisonous wine replaced with aquafortis.

“No thoughts of mortality for Dionysus,” Enjolras said, feeling himself sneer. Why? Grantaire made no difference, conscious or unconscious. “Or perhaps it is Pan, head dragged down by his horns.”

What would Grantaire do if he woke up? Run?

No, it truly made no difference now. Enjolras took the empty seat next to him.

“Do you think my death will be seemly, Grantaire?” He contemplated how he could die badly, fearfully, but he knew cowardice was not in him - along with many other things. Enjolras did not expect to feel so deficient at his end. Lonely. He found himself reaching for Grantaire’s hand.

Unseen by Enjolras, Grantaire’s eyes were open beneath his lashes. He would have said something, if there could be covenants between men and lions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry about stealing all the best lines in this from the Iliad.


	8. pont sans mercy. enjolras/grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire are ghosts, for clenster.

Death became Enjolras. Grantaire, not so much.

“Afterlife, I deny you,” Grantaire declared, gesturing capaciously. Not having a body had made him even more theatrical. “And yet the gates of Hell will still not open for me. Perhaps if Satan were munching on my backside I could have a glass of wine.”

“Perhaps had you betrayed me, you’d feel the cold on your own ass, instead of chilling others,” Enjolras said. His ghostly arms were crossed and he looked down his fine, albeit invisible, nose at Grantaire.

“There are so many reasons I deserve Hell. The real Hell, with the demons and the eternal torment. This? Where we are now? It is Purgatory. A Purgatory of Pontmercy.”

Ghosts are often tied to the ones they cared for in life. Grantaire was the satellite of Enjolras. As all of Enjolras’s friends were dead, save one, they had found themselves to be Marius’s unwilling houseguests.

“Do you really think there is a worse Hell than Marius’s nuptial bed?” Enjolras asked.

“Yes. A child’s birthday party. Come with me, and let’s try to sin our way to the lower depths.”

Grantaire dragged Enjolras out of the closet where they had been hiding from a rousing chorus of “Joyeux Anniversaire.” A sudden chill descended upon the smiling children as Grantaire manifested himself in the middle of the table, displaying the bloody wounds from his execution.

They screamed in terror and ran for the door. But sprawled across the doorway was Enjolras, arms akimbo, howling about the necessity of free education.

And so it was that the birthday of little Jean Jean-Marie Jean Pontmercy was ruined.


	9. the ghost and m. pontmercy. marius/courfeyrac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost!Courfeyrac for Smokefall.

Marius was wretched.

Cosette was gone from his world. She’d said something about the rights of women, achieving self-agency, and a lesbian commune in Florida, and then she packed her luggage and left.

It was as if Cosette had taken all the warmth with her. In fact, there was often a cold breeze when Marius was feeling at his worst.

Was it a medical condition? Probably. It might be a sign of consumption. Could loneliness make someone’s nipples hard?

Carl was not himself either. He had taken to staring at nothing at all, and peeing in the pattern of his dead friend Courfeyrac’s name on the floor. Then there were the mysterious messages left in the dust which had overtaken Marius’s furniture, saying, “my dear fellow, you are alone in this world but not the next.”

Marius retreated into his study, and saw that just like yesterday, there was a glass of brandy and piece of dessert next to his most comfortable chair. Oh, if only he were still loved! Marius heaved himself into the chair with a sigh. He glanced over the note left by the mille-feuille.

_To the booby, esq.,_

_You are being seduced. Should you desire it, please remove your clothing and stand in the northwest corner, where I can do miraculous things with magnetic fields and the natural crossbreeze._

_Your eternal friend,_

_[illegible scribbling] Courfeyrac_

Marius began to wonder if he might be haunted. No, that was too ridiculous to contemplate - the letter was surely one of Carl’s prank. Marius congratulated himself on not being a fool as he bit into his pastry.


End file.
